


Three Knocks

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Footing, First Kiss, Hogmanay, M/M, New Year's Eve, Scotland, Traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-24 17:46:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17105243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: After being outed on national TV, Arthur goes to a remote Hebridean island with his band mates for New Year's Eve, to avoid the paparazzi. At the same time, he hopes to discover more about his mother's origins. But he soon finds that blond hair and nice knees alone don't open any doors on Hogmanay.In which Arthur calls Merlin names. They argue and he learns that yes, there is a dance called the Gay Gordons, and no, perhaps disappointingly, it doesn't mean what he thought it meant.





	Three Knocks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tari_Sue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tari_Sue/gifts).



> For Tari_Sue who left [this amazing prompt:](https://winterknights.livejournal.com/47131.html?thread=334875#t334875) _Arthur and Leon are in the Highlands for Hogmanay and have to take Merlin and Gwaine first-footing with them because no one will allow a man with fair hair to be first across the threshold._
> 
> The writer has attempted to use mild Scots dialect in places. 
> 
> With enormous thanks to L, C and P for taking time to read and encourage, and to the fabulous mods as always <3.

***

When Arthur Prince stepped down out of the door of his new cottage in Ealdor, on the remote Hebridean island of Eilean a’ Bhàird, the view brought him to a halt. The relentless rain had finally cleared, although scraps of lowering cloud still drifted over the peaks of the hills inland. From behind this cloudbank rose a vast, silvered moon. A trail of moonlight glittered and danced across the water.

He stared, open-mouthed. He’d never seen anything like it.

“Arthur, mate, have you brought a torch?” Leon, following just behind, stopped. “Wow.”

“Let us out, boys.” Morgana pushed past. “Dear God! That’s gorgeous. Has anyone got a phone with them? We’ve got to tweet it. Oh, wait, no signal.”

“I can’t see!” Poor Gwen was jumping up and down, heels clacking on stone. Chuckling, Arthur stepped down off the threshold to let her out. “Oh my God, Arthur. No wonder your mother loved this place.”

Arthur nodded, swallowing. Trust Gwen to put her finger on the reason why his heart had nearly stopped when he saw the pale shapes of the harbour buildings silhouetted against the playful dance of the moonlight.

“Definitely worth all the trouble,” said Leon, shaking his head.

It had taken them nearly a full day of driving to get here from London, plus a terrifying ferry journey. There wasn’t even a helicopter landing strip on the island. This place was so remote, there was no internet in the cottage and Arthur’s mobile phone stubbornly refused to find a signal. There wasn't even a supermarket. Thankfully, Hunith, the kind-eyed woman who lived in the cottage next door had met them with several heavy bags of groceries. She had assured him that if he needed to, he could normally get a signal from a particular corner of the pub car park. But Arthur really didn’t want to be back in the real world right now.

Just thinking about it made him shudder.

“All right, Arthur?” Gwen’s eyes were very dark despite the moonlight. She wore a heavy black coat, her head covered by a thick scarf.

“Just a bit cold.”

It was true. The wind bit through his jacket. Worse, he was wearing the kilt he’d had made in a tartan designed in honour of his mother, and although the warm fabric clung to his thighs, his knees were not used to being exposed like this. He supposed nothing stood between him and the relentless Arctic wind but the even more remote Outer Hebrides, over to the west. What could life be like out there, on that thick smudge between the star-studded sky and the ink-black sea?

“Sure you want to go to the pub?” Leon’s face was sympathetic.

“Spare me the pity party, folks.” More for effect than anything else, he tugged his sunglasses down onto his face. He couldn’t see a thing, save for the bright light that spilled onto the pavement outside the island’s sole pub, which was at the harbour at the end of the only street. “Let’s hit the road. Hunith told me there would be a ceilidh, and I’m keen to research this fine old tradition for myself.”

A ceilidh was some sort of Scottish dance party. Apparently, his mother had enjoyed ceilidhs. It was one of the startling facts that the researchers and historians had discovered for him. They’d even found a picture of her, laughing and twirling her skirts in some godforsaken nineteen-eighties Scottish pub, filled with thick cigarette smoke and gap-toothed fishermen in heavy jumpers, like some sort of throwback to the movie Local Hero. Maybe this pub, even.

He couldn’t explain his hunger to find out more, to feel how she had felt, what life was like for her out here on this far-flung, inhospitable rock. Not out loud. So instead he pulled his hat down low onto his head and stepped out into the shining night.

***

Despite being on an tiny island and accessible only on calm days, the Rising Sun was a lively and well-run bar. Its owner Gaius Beatson prided himself on his ability to keep it well stocked even through the roughest of winters. There were a sprinkling of locals here now - attracted by the prospect of a ceilidh and the bar’s legendary single malt whisky selection, curated by Gaius’s partner, Geoffrey.

“Whisky chaser?” one of the locals was saying - a thick-set, rough-haired bloke with fierce eyes. He was standing with elbows on the bar, one foot perched on the steel rail alongside it, the other firmly on the floor.

“No, thanks, Will.” His companion, lighter of build with fey cheekbones and a mop of wild blue-black hair, sat on a barstool, nursing a pint pot. “Don’t want to peak too early.”

“You’re still a lightweight, Merlin.” Will frowned into his empty glass. “I’d have thought all those university types over in Auld Reekie would’ve taught you to drink by now. Don’t mind if I get myself one, do you? Two pints of Heavy and a wee Bells, thanks Gaius.”

“Good luck with that.” An amused grin tugged at Merlin’s mouth.

There was no way that Gaius would let that slide. Bells was the cheapest blended whisky on offer at the Rising Sun. Geoffrey hated it when they had locals in and Bells was the only thing they could sell of an evening. It was easier to flog the expensive single malts to tourists. But that wouldn’t stop Gaius trying. He had a trick with his eyebrows that made buying the pricier whiskies almost irresistible.

“Ah, sure it’ll be Bell’s you’’ll have?” As predicted, Gaius lifted a stern eyebrow. “I cannae tempt your with a wee Talisker or a Bunnahabhain?”

“Bells is fine,” said William firmly, although his gaze drifted longingly along the inviting array of amber bottles.

Sensing that Will was wavering, Gaius leaned forward on his elbows, took a quick glance over one shoulder, and added in a conspiratorial whisper, “If it’s the Speyside malts you prefer I’ve a cheeky 16-year-old Macallan under the counter? Strictly locals only.”

“Are you trying to bankrupt me?” Will rolled his eyes. “I’d love to, you know that Gaius, but Dad hasn’t paid me this month.”

“Ach, well, If it’s a blend you prefer, I’ve Famous Grouse?” Clutching a tumbler, Gaius’s hand hovered under the Famous Grouse optic.

“Bells will be fine, thanks, big man.”

Coins and drinks exchanged hands and Merlin shook his head fondly. From his vantage on the stool, he cast his eye across the crowded room, past familiar faces and new, nodding at the occasional acquaintance and raising his glass. Many of the crowd were old friends and neighbours, but the Rising Sun doubled as a guest house and several tourists also sat here and there, sipping pints and adding to the hub-bub. He couldn’t really blame them for wanting to visit. On nights like these, with the wind dying down and the moon rising over to the east and casting a faint, eerie light over the calm sea and the lochans and islets, Ealdor could be an absolute delight.

Suffocating to live in, though. He couldn’t work out why Will stayed here - apart from the obvious. He was not being subtle, tonight. His gaze darted often away; in the mirror that sparkled behind the bar, Merlin could trace where it strayed. To a corner where a small group of musicians tapped microphones, tuned fiddles and muttered as they sound-checked their equipment.

“I see Freya is still playing the fiddle.” Merlin smirked and nudged Will in the ribs. “Have you asked her out yet?”

“Shut _up_ , you over-perceptive wee gobshite,” said Will, darting a glance over towards the band.

“I’ll take that as a no.” Merlin rolled his eyes. For God’s sake. “You should ask her. Tonight.”

“Fuck off,” said Will, without heat. “Tell you what, I’ll do it if you ask someone tonight. And vice versa. Deal?”

Merlin laughed. “You’re onto a pretty safe bet there, Will, as well you know.”

After all, growing up, there had only ever been two gay guys on this benighted island: Merlin, and his uncle Gaius (until Geoffrey turned up, anyway). And Merlin may have been single, but he wasn’t a weirdo.

“You could find someone on Grindr,” said Will.

Merlin snorted. “Very funny. I’d basically have to stand in one corner of the car park for a signal.”

“That would save time because the only other gay guy on the island would have to be there as well.” Will grinned. “That’s the beauty of the plan!”

“Anyway, glad to see you haven’t changed, mate.” Merlin sighed. “But sadly, nor has this place. There won’t be any handsome strangers sweeping me off my feet in here, tonight.” He flung out an arm to draw Will’s attention to the motley bunch of straight people in the room.

The twinkling lights around the mirrors cast a golden glow across the pale-gold wood of the walls and floor. The pub was busy for Hogmanay and no tables were free. A merry open fire pumped out plenty of heat and the windows were all steamed up. Still, at least Gaius’s Pride flag hung above the mantelpiece, in the place of the slaughtered stag that used to be there. Ealdor may have been traditional, but it wasn’t backward.

Over by the snug, their mate Gwaine, also back from university, was sitting with four or five women, all tourists, one of whom had decamped to his lap. Merlin lifted a hand to wave; Gwaine grinned back.

“There’s always Gwaine,” said Will.

“Nah.” Merlin snorted. “Been there, done that. Besides which, there’s already a lengthy queue, by all accounts.”

“Fair point.” Will took a long glug of his pint. “So, how are ye keeping?”

“Not sae bad.” As always, Merlin found his accent thickening as the atmosphere of the place washed over him.

“What happened with that Edwin bloke?”

“Ach.” Merlin fingered his pint and took a thoughtful swig. “Bastard dumped me.”

“Do I need to round up the lads and go and beat the wanker up for ye?”

Merlin chuckled. “I appreciate the sentiment, mate, but seriously I wouldn’t want you to lose any sleep over him. He’s a tube.”

“Oh, aye, well, if you want me to just say the word. Jesus, would you look at that prick over there?” Will nodded over at a group of four people snugly dressed people, who had just walked in. One of them, the one who was decked out in a kilt with full regalia as if he was attending the highland games, was actually wearing sunglasses. “Who the hell wears shades in the dark. In the midwinter. In the Inner Hebrides?”

“Will, don’t be a twat,” said Merlin. “What if he has a visual impairment or something?”

“Nah, I know his type. He’s just a stuck-up southern pillock who reckons himself.”

“Shhh!” Merlin chuckled. “You shouldn’t just assume!” Tilting his head on one side, Merlin checked said pillock out. He and his companions certainly looked better dressed than the ordinary clientele of the Rising Sun, even on Hogmanay. There was something familiar about the tense line of the guy’s jaw, the sharp set of his cheekbones and nose. “God. He’s fit though.” Pillock or not, he was hot as fuck.

“Aye, I suppose he is.” Although he was as straight as a bloody maypole, at least Will wasn’t afraid to appreciate the male form. “See you in a wee while, Merls.”

He wandered off to sit near the band, no doubt planning to ogle Freya. Meanwhile, there being nowhere left to sit, the four newcomers had made their way over to the bar. One of the women attempted to perch on a barstool. Noticing Merlin watching, she smiled at him. She had kind eyes.

The stool wobbled a bit and she teetered. “Oops!” Alarm flashed across her face.

“Careful there!” As he reached out to touch her elbow and steady her, Merlin couldn’t help smiling back. The stool righted itself, and he let go. “Hi!”

“Hi,” she replied, smile widening and head tilting on one side. “Thank you! I nearly went flying there, and I haven’t had a drop to drink yet!” Her accent placed her as being from somewhere in south-east England, but unlike the stereotype she seemed sweet and friendly.

“Bodes well for later,” said Merlin.

“I’m thinking perhaps I should have worn more practical shoes.” She gazed down at her gaudy, expensive-looking heels. A misty-eyed expression flitted across her face. She obviously loved them a great deal.

“No, don’t be daft!” said Merlin, grinning. “It’s New Year’s Eve, when else can you wear such a spectacular pair!”

“That’s what I said!” She laughed, making her curls shake and tumble over her shoulder. “This lot were all horrified about me wearing heels. They were all, like, no, Gwen, don’t be silly, you’ll never get home safe in those! But, if necessary, one of the big guys can carry me or something. I don’t care. It’s not far to Arthur’s cottage. I can always take them off and walk back barefoot if I get too tipsy.” Her hand flew up to her mouth. “Oh, but now you’re going to think that I’m a drunk! Honestly, I don’t drink that much! Not as much as the others, anyway.” She bit her lip. “Oh God, they’re not alcoholics or anything! They’re just bigger than me. Not fat, I mean. Just taller. And quite muscular. Or Arthur is, anyway. Not that he’s my type. Nor me his, for that matter. Oh, God. I’m babbling. Someone stop me!”

“Hush Gwen!” The woman by her side stroked her arm. She had flawless, pale skin and her eyes were a luminous grey-green. She reached out a hand, which Merlin shook. “Hi! I’m Morgana, and this is Gwen. Thank you for rescuing her.”

“Hi. I’m Merlin, and you’re welcome! Happy Hogmanay! Does Gwen often need rescuing?”

“Oh, all the time.”

“Shut _up_!” Gwen bashed Morgana on the arm with her handbag.

And just like that, he was chatting with the two women like old friends. The blokes were a bit more aloof, although Merlin tried a couple of times to draw them into the conversation. Merlin soon discovered that they were staying in the cottage next door to his mum’s.

“So, what are you planning to do later? Kill someone?” Arthur, the fit blond bloke who still insisted on wearing sunglasses, nodded down at Merlin’s kit bag.

“What? Oh, no, that, aye, well, we’re going first footing, later. And that’s my stuff, ye ken.”

Merlin couldn’t help making his accent slip even further towards the Scots end of the spectrum when talking to this guy. Something about Arthur’s toffee-nosed, English manner offended Merlin. How dare this posh sassenach flaunt those perfect knees beneath some manufactured tartan? The git was about as Scottish as a St George’s flag in the middle of a bloody cricket pitch, drinking Pimm’s. How bloody dare he!  

“I only asked.” Arthur huffed and muttered something that sounded like “suspicious-minded, in-bred half-wit.”

“There’s no need to be rude, ye soft, southern wanker.” Merlin gave him his best glare. “Just because you’re good looking doesn’t excuse you from being civil.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “I should have known that with ears like that you’d have uncanny hearing.”

That did it. No-one took a pop at Merlin’s ears. He’d endured enough teasing at school. He wasn’t going to tolerate it from some jumped-up southern twat, no matter how shaggable. He prodded the guy in the chest. A distant part of him registered with pleasure the firmness of said chest. “Well I should hae known that with an arse like that ye’d be a prize pillock wi’ nae manners.”

“Excuse me! You can’t talk to me like that! Don’t you know who I am?”

“I dinnae care who ye are. Some posh bloke with an inflated sense of his own importance. Well, ye don’t impress me wi’ your sunglasses and your…” Merlin flapped his hands vaguely towards the bloke’s kilt area. “...your gorgeous bloody knees and your square bloody jawline.”

“Methinks the lady protesteth too much,” drawled Arthur.

“Methinks? _Methinks?_ ” The laugh exploded out of Merlin like a mirth bomb. “Jesus! If you were any posher, you’d be the bloody queen, mate.”

“Don’t you mean king?” growled Arthur.

“Noo…” Merlin tilted his head on one side and looked down at Arthur’s kilt again. Jesus. Those knees, though. “Think I got it right first time…”

Arthur bit his lip as if trying to think of a suitable retort, but his mate beat him to it.

“Ahem.” The other bloke with them was tall and soft spoken. “First footing? Is that a big tradition around here then?”

“Aye.” Still glaring at Arthur, Merlin took a sip of his beer. “And an ancient one.”

“Ancient?” Arthur bit his lip. “So they’ve been doing this around here for years, then? What does it entail?”

 _Jesus_ , the bloke was posh. What sort of a knob used words like _entail_ in conversation?

“Oh, right, mate, why would I tell _you_ anything about it?”

“Oh, still sore about the ears?”

“Arthur!” said Gwen, sharply.

“It’s okay Gwen, I can deal with this.” Merlin shook his head and sighed, putting his now empty pint pot down on the bar and glowering at it for a moment before lifting his chin. “Look, ye privileged wanker.”

Arthur opened his mouth, but Gwen shushed him again.

“Look.” Merlin lifted an admonishing eyebrow, a trick that he’d learned from Gaius. “Here’s how it is. Now, no doubt your school days flashed by in a blur of accolades and sporting achievements.” He shrugged and licked his lips as he pulled the words together in his head. “Effortlessly popular. You had legions of adoring little Etonians or whatever toffo place you went to trotting around after you, wanting to… to… carry your stuff and write your essays and suck your knob, or whatever… Right?”

Rolling his eyes, Arthur opened his mouth to speak.

Merlin waggled his finger. “Ah-ah! I haven’t finished.” He shifted his weight on the bar stool “But up here, I was known as Jug-ears. All my life. My ears were twisted, flicked, pulled and jeered at from morning til night for thirteen fucking years of school . So, yes, I am still sore about the ears and you should take more care of what you say to people, _pal_. You may be popular now, but when your life goes wrong, which it will, because everyone’s does at some point, it’s the Jug-ears of this world that ye’ll need to pick up the pieces. Now if ye’ll excuse me... I need a slash.”

Before Arthur could reply, Merlin turned his back and sauntered (he definitely did not flounce) over to the gents, thoroughly expecting Arthur to have left the pub by the time he got back. But instead, the man was still standing there, alone.

“What are you still doing here?” Merlin said, as he tried to catch Geoffrey’s attention to buy another pint.  

“You forgot your bag.” Arthur pointed down at it. “I thought I should keep an eye on it for you.”

“Oh.” Taken aback, Merlin shrugged. “Thanks, I guess.”

Arthur swallowed. “Plus, I overstepped. I’d like to apologise. For being rude about your ears. I didn’t mean to offend you. I have a very poor brain to mouth filter. Plus, I have not had the best of weeks. In fact, they’re very fine ears.”

To Merlin’s shock, he held out a hand to shake. Merlin glared at it.

“Fine.” Withdrawing the hand, Arthur shrugged. “I understand your reluctance to shake hands. But I do mean it. At least let me buy you a pint. To make up for my earlier churlishness.”

“Wow.” Merlin snorted. “ _Churlishness_. That’s a big word. Are you sure you know what it means?”

“Merlin, I’m trying to make amends.”

“Okay.” Grinning Merlin held out a hand. “I’m messing with you. I’ll shake hands, and accept the apology, and the pint too, for good measure.”

“The apology _and_ the pint? It was more an either - or, situation.”

“What do you expect? I’m Scottish and you’re rich. Come on mate, mine’s a pint of Heavy.”

“Fine.” A soft smile stole across Arthur’s lips. “But you’ve got to promise to tell me all about this first footing tradition of yours. Deal?”

Merlin grasped Arthur’s hand, and shook it. It was warm and strong, and Arthur had perfectly trimmed thumbnails. “Deal.”

While Gaius was pulling their pints, the ghost of the handshake still lingered on Merlin’s palm. To distract himself from it, he toyed with the bar towel and tried not to steal glances at Arthur’s thumbs.

Eventually, two frothing pints in hand, they stared at each other.

“So. First-footing? How does that work exactly?” Arthur seemed to be at least trying to be civil.  

“Right, well. First person to step over the threshold after midnight brings some gifts.” Merlin rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Not any old gifts, mind, they have to be the right ones - and that brings good luck and all. They have to be a bloke, mind. Can’t be a woman, that’s bad luck. And then they can kiss all the women inside. I’m not normally into kissing women, but my mate Gwaine likes that bit. And then we sing Auld Lang Syne.”

“Gifts? What gifts do you have to bring?” said Arthur. “Is that what’s in your bag?”

“Aye. Take a look.” Grabbing his half-forgotten bag, Merlin hoicked it up onto the bar stool, opening it to reveal a nearly empty bottle of whisky, a half-eaten loaf of Homepride, some plastic cups and a cellophane bag containing dark shapes.

While he was looking in the bag, Gwen joined them again.

“Oh! Are these the first footing gifts? Your friend was just telling me about those.” She nodded over to the table where Gwaine was chatting animatedly to Morgana, raising all sorts of worries that Merlin didn’t want to examine too carefully. She waved a purple Royal Bank of Scotland twenty-pound note at Gaius. “I’ll have two pints of Heavy and two pink gins and tonic, please!”

“So how does it work, then?” said Arthur.

“Me mam is waiting at home for me, drinking lambrusco by the fire with me mate Will’s mam.” They were probably deep in island gossip by now. Merlin shrugged. “Soon as the clock strikes midnight, me and Will will be ready outside with some whisky, a lump of coal, some bread and a Scottish five pound note! It’s meant to symbolise good luck.”

“Brilliant!” A broad smile broke out across Arthur’s face like icebergs melting in the heat of the sun. “I love it! Gwen, we have to do this!”

Jesus. Merlin swallowed. That smile. It ironed out the fierce line between Arthur’s brows and lifted those posh lips into a sweet, kissable pink arc. Jesus.

“I know!” said Gwen. “It’ll be perfect. Morgs and I will go home from the pub a bit early, and you and Leon can be first footers!”

“Ach, no ye can’t!” Spotting the flaw in their plan, Merlin shrugged apologetically. “That won’t work at all. A red-headed man is bad luck. And a blond headed one is too. It stems back to the viking days, ye ken. It’s bad luck for a viking to turn up on the doorstep with his axe. You need someone dark!”

With an abrupt flick of one hand, Arthur finally removed his sunglasses to reveal the bluest eyes Merlin had ever seen. The attention was uncomfortable in its intensity.

“You’re dark,” Arthur pointed out after what seemed like an eternity of fixing Merlin with that luminous gaze.

“Intelligent of you to notice.” Merlin frowned, although he could already tell where this was going. “What are you getting at, exactly?”

Another smile appeared on Arthur’s face, this one slow and appreciative. And hot damn, that smile and those baby blue eyes were a deadly combination. It was a miracle that Merlin hadn’t fallen down dead, slain by hotness and the chiselled jaw of doom. That would make a good name for a book, actually. One day, if he ever graduated, he would write a novel, and call it “Slain by Hotness and the Chiselled Jaw of Doom”. It would be an instant hit. Anyone who had ever met Arthur would buy it on the spot.

“Well, Merlin,” drawled Arthur, as if explaining something to an imbecile. “As you tick all the boxes, then perhaps I can do…” he paused and raised one eyebrow in a suggestive arc. “ _It_... With _you_.”

Do _it_? Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Merlin bit his lip, and took a moment to let his eyes trail up and down Arthur’s beautifully put together, toned body. His shirt did nothing to hide the tight flex of muscle beneath. And his knees. God! How could Merlin be so excited by _knees_ , for God’s sake? But there they were: golden and liberally sprinkled with flecks of honey-brown hair. Swallowing, he he finished his perusal in the vicinity of Arthur’s mouth.

“Do _what,_ exactly.” Merlin looked up through his lashes at Arthur, before licking his lips and adding, one eyebrow raised, “with me?”

God. He was flirting. He was definitely flirting. But he couldn’t help it, not when Arthur was pressing those sarcastic lips together and smirking like that. That smirk! If a smirk could be a piece of card, this one was gold-trimmed and stated, in flowing cursive handwriting, written with italic nib, _Merlin Emrys, you are invited to flirt with me, Arthur Poshface, with a view to maybe snogging at midnight_.

“First footing, of course.” Arthur’s eyes drew a sly line up and down Merlin. “What did you think I meant? _Mer_ lin. Snogging at midnight?”

“Oh, God, yeah,” Merlin said, forgetting what he was agreeing to. “I’m in.”

***

Arthur hadn’t known what to expect from a ceilidh. He’d insisted on attending this one only in the spirit of learning more about what life in this tiny community had been like for his mother. He certainly hadn’t expected to enjoy it so much.

One of Merlin's mates, a bloke with swishy dark hair called some weird Scottish name that sounded a bit like Gwen but couldn’t be, because that was a girl’s name, had nearly put him off. After leering at Arthur and telling him that he'd like to see him "doing the _Gay Gordons_ , mate, nice knees, bet that's a tidy arse under there," bloke-Gwen turned his attention to Morgana. "Hey, beautiful. Your lips are so lovely. Would they like to meet mine?" 

Morgana's eyes narrowed. "If you say another word, worm, your _lips_ will be meeting my _fist_."

"Oh! A feisty one this is." With a swish of his admittedly impressive hair, Gw-whatever laughed and held out an arm. "Dance with me, gorgeous?" 

"I have very high heels on. All the better to stab your feet with." But Morgana took his arm. 

Part revolted, part impressed, Arthur turned to Merlin. 

"The _Gay Gordons_?" he murmured. "Is your mate taking the piss?"

"What? Oh, no, don't worry, the _Gay Gordons_ is a traditional dance, actually." Merlin laughed. "I know, it's a bit surreal isn't it? It's a nightmare for the girl, that one. Too much twirling. My mate Freya always gets so giddy she falls over. I reckon that's why she prefers to play the fiddle, to be honest. Anyway, like I say, don't worry. Gwaine's pansexual anyway. He's not taking the piss. He's probably genuinely interested." 

Eventually, the crowd in the pub had divided up into four or five groups of eight, and he’d joined one of those groups with Morgana, Gwen and Leon, plus Merlin, Gwaine, and two local girls. One of them, a pretty blonde called Sefa, kept batting her lashes at Merlin. The poor thing was barking up the wrong tree there,  though. Arthur could have told them that. Even though, as Morgana kept telling him, his gaydar had become rusty through years of disuse. There were certain signals that even Arthur could not ignore. Plus, the Pride badge that Merlin was wearing on his t-shirt was a dead giveaway.

One of the most gratifying things about the whole evening was that nobody seemed to have recognised any of them, despite the fact that he’d ditched the sunglasses.

The second the band struck up for the first dance, something called the _Eightsome Reel_ , it was clear that despite most of the group having grown up on this sort of dancing, none of them had any clue what to do. There was a flurry of weaving in and out, and some twirling, and a fair amount of enthusiastic arm waving, but mostly people ended up bumbling about, pink-cheeked and giggling while the caller bellowed instructions at them. He hadn’t had so much fun in years.

There were more blokes than women in the room, too. This meant that later on, he had a fantastic excuse to end up dancing _Strip the Willow_ with Merlin as his partner. And hot damn! If the man had been attractive when acting all offended and glowering into his pint, he was downright shaggable now. All flushed and giggling, with his insane hair and noodly arms flailing around all over the place.

At one point in this particular dance, each couple was encouraged to grab each other’s hands and twirl one another as enthusiastically as possible, while the rest of the assembly whooped, clapped and yelled “yee-hah!”. When it was their turn, driven on by all the loud encouragement, Arthur went for it, spinning ever faster until the two of them were in a laughing, dizzy bubble and his kilt fanned out behind him.

“Hope you’re wearing pants!” yelled Merlin above the din. “Otherwise the rest of them are all getting an amazing view right now and I’m jealous!”

“Wouldn’t you like to know!”

“You bet I would!”

“Shameless hussy!” Grinning, Arthur whooped as he spun Merlin even faster until they both stumbled and ended up in a laughing heap on the floor while the assembled crowd cheered and someone—probably Gwaine—let out a piercing wolf whistle. “Maybe I’ll show you later… if you ask nicely.”

“Yes please! Is that nice enough?”

It was weird how the crazy dancing and the joyful atmosphere robbed him of inhibitions. He was still laughing when it was another couple’s turn to dance and he and Merlin fell back onto opposite sides of the room, clapping along with the music. He sent Merlin a flirtatious wink, just to make sure that he hadn’t misread the situation. In reply, Merlin licked his lips and raised his eyebrows, which made something warm and hopeful unfurl in Arthur’s belly.

***

After the ceilidh finished at half eleven, Merlin dragged Arthur and his friends out of the rapidly emptying pub. Several contingents weaved along the road. There were six of them in their party, because although Will had finally copped off with Freya, and the two of them had disappeared some time ago, they’d been joined by Gwaine, who doubled as another dark man that they could do first footing with.

Morgana and Gwen went on ahead with Leon and Gwaine, while Merlin and Arthur dragged their heels. The moon had risen further now and bathed the village and sea in a friendly, silvery glow that made the frosty ground glitter.

Arthur’s ungloved hand was cold in Merlin’s, but the glances that they stole were not. Gradually, they slipped further behind the others, walking more and more slowly until they came to a halt by the harbour wall. Out to sea, a lighthouse flashed. In the harbour bobbed a few fishing boats, their masts waggling with each incoming wave.

“I can see why mum liked in this place,” said Arthur, leaning on the railing and staring down at the sea.

“Your mum?” Merlin leaned back, both elbows taking his weight, one foot perched on a low wall behind him.

“Yeah. She lived in the house next to yours, years ago, before she went away to uni and met my father.”  

“Oh! Mum must know her! So, has she given you the house or something?”

“No. She died. While I was being born.”

“Oh, Christ, Arthur, I’m sorry.” Merlin reached out to place one hand on Arthur’s and squeeze it.

“It’s okay. I have no memory of her. But I miss her, even so. Is that insane?”

“No,” said Merlin. “My Dad left us when I was wee. I dinnae even ken what he looks like, except in photos. And I miss him too. I ache to find him, to know him. You know?” He hadn’t even told that to Will. It was strange how talking to Arthur felt so natural, how it made him open up like this.

“Yeah. I really do.” Arthur stared out across the lapping water. “They... I... found a photo of her. My mum, I mean. At a ceilidh like this one. It’s… I wanted to try it… It was so much fun.” His adam’s apple, silhouetted against the moon, worked. “Thank you, Merlin. I really feel like I know her a bit better now.”

“You’re welcome.” Heart in his mouth, he added in a low voice. “Is that the only reason you enjoyed it?”

“No.” Arthur’s eyes glittered when he shook his head, and his teeth reflected the moonlight when he smiled. “Apart from it being ludicrous, I mean... there was the fact that I was dancing with the most beautiful man in the room.”

“Me?” croaked Merlin.

“Did I dance with any other men?” Arthur tilted his head towards him.

“Just wanted to check.” Merlin echoed the movement.

Far above their heads, a shooting star streaked across the sky. They were so close that their faces were nearly touching. It would take just a heartbeat to close the distance and…

“Boys!” Gwen’s voice rang out clear and insistent across the water. “Come on! It’s nearly midnight.”

“Coming!” Turning away from the view, Arthur chuckled, his breath ghosting out in a cloud into the cold, frosty air. “Duty calls.”

Damn!

***

“Are you sure there are enough things in your bag for both cottages?” Arthur was getting a bit concerned. In particular, Merlin’s long-haired mate Gwaine was digging into the remaining whisky supply with enthusiasm. Soon there would only be a thimbleful left.  

Gwen had discarded her shoes in favour of a pair of Gaius’s old slippers. They stood outside the door of the cottages for a few minutes, flashing Leon’s torch at the sky in search of clouds and sipping whisky out of Gwaine’s hip flask to keep out the cold, while Morgana searched for the key.

“Ach, Princess, it’s more about the symbolism than the amount of gifts,” said Gwaine. “Just push Merlin through the door of his mam’s house with a slice of bread in his wee hand, and then ye can chase in after with the whisky and snog all the women.” He took another long swig out of the flask, wiped it on the cloth of his jacket, and proffered it to Arthur.

“Oh, please,” sneered Morgana in a tone of voice that Arthur recognised. It signified a passing predatory interest. “Arthur is far more interested in snogging Merlin than Merlin’s mother, you unobservant hooligan.”

“Hey! I’m standing right here!” protested Arthur. Taking a cautious sip from the hip flask, he blinked as the whisky burned its way down his throat, and then passed it over to Merlin.

“Is that right?” Gwaine whistled and eyed Arthur up and down. “Fit too, wouldn’t mind having a go meself. Do ye swing both ways, Princess? You and Morgs here would look amazing together. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a threesome?”

Clocking the expression on Morgana’s face, Arthur winced. This Gwaine bloke clearly lacked some fundamental self preservation gene.

Morgana’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits just before she slapped Gwaine hard on one cheek. “He’s my brother, you disgusting oik.”

“Ow!” Gwaine nursed his cheek with one hand. He can’t have been in too much pain, though, because the other hand accurately grabbed for the hip flask, which Merlin had been holding out to him.

“Serves you right.” Morgana snatched said hip flask and took a generous glug. “Jesus, that’s rancid. Now make yourself useful and find my key. It’s in this bag somewhere.”

“Should we separate them, do you think?” said Merlin, out of the corner of his mouth.

“Nah.” Arthur had witnessed Morgana’s peculiar form of flirting before. “This sort of thing counts as foreplay, for her. If she wasn’t interested, she’d have drawn blood by now.”

“Beats me why you’d lock the door anyway,” Gwaine was saying. “What do you think’s going to happen to you on an island like this? Get murdered in your beds?”

“More likely ravaged by an unkempt lout with no boundaries.” Morgana’s chin jutted out, and she flipped her hair around a bit.

In a hair-tossing competition, it would be a close run thing between the two of them, but Arthur would put his money on Morgana. He’d seen how much money she spent on conditioner.

“Ach. I don’t go in for that kind of ravaging.” Gwaine grinned. “I’m more of a negotiated kink kind of ravisher. I’ll try most things. If you say no, I’m out of here. Do you say no?”

“I didn’t say anything of the sort,” purred Morgana.

“Ugh, will you two stop it?” said Leon. “Save it for the bloody bedroom.”

“Fine,” said Gwaine. “But unless you object, Merls, mate I get dibs on the post-midnight first-footer snog job for this cottage.”

“Presumptuous fucking flirt,” muttered Morgana. “You’ll get a peck on the cheek if you’re lucky.”

“Oh, aye, I’m lucky.” Gwaine grinned. “Lucky’s my middle name.”

By this time, Morgana had found her keys. She, Leon and Gwen entered the cottage, slamming the door in Gwaine’s still-grinning face, leaving the other three men outside. Merlin started to jump up and down, flapping his arms around. “Jesus, it’s freezing.”

“I’ll keep you warm,” said Arthur, emboldened by the whisky.

“I’ll bet you will, Princess.” Gwaine grinned before dropping his bombshell. “So what brings a newly out bisexual rock star to the shores of this godforsaken island, then?”

“Rock star?” said Merlin. “What do ye mean?”

“Merlin, mate. I know you walk around with your eyes shut half the time, but some of us keep abreast of the news. Your squeeze here. Arthur Prince.” Gwaine nodded towards Arthur. “And his mate, Leon Phoenix, are one half of this year’s biggest rock band, Knights of Camelot. And the two stunning ladies are Leon’s other half, Gwen Smith, and the terrifying yet brilliant drummer, Morgana Pendragon.”

Bugger. That tore it. Arthur huffed out a disappointed sigh. He had been hoping to keep that quiet for a little longer.

“What?” Merlin peered closely at him. “So, are you famous, then? I thought you looked a bit familiar! Wow! You’re a musician. Will I know any of your songs?”

“Probably.” Arthur shrugged. “Gwen’s the star really, as lead singer. I just play the lead guitar.”

“Aye, and write the songs,” said Gwaine with a swish of his hair.

“You seem to know a lot about us.”

“Most people do! Old Merls, here, is hopeless, head always stuck in a book, but we’re not all marooned in the twentieth century.”

Sucking air in between his teeth, Arthur shoved his hands in his pockets in an attempt to warm them up. Well, the game was up now. He might as well come clean about the rest as well. He shrugged before confessing, “I’ve been on TV a few times too.”

“You didn’t tell me!” Merlin’s mouth was a shocked O.

“You didn’t ask.”

“Was wondering when ye were going to mention it, ye ken.” Gwaine poked him in the side. “So, spill the beans mate. What are you doing here? It’s hardly Hollywood, is it?”

“That’s why I like it,” said Arthur, which was only being honest. “Plus I… well. My mum… she lived here as a child. And I only found out about it when I went on some weird ancestry show on telly… then the house came on the market and it seemed like…”

“Destiny,” breathed Merlin, who was staring round-eyed at him, and worrying at his bottom lip with one tooth.

“Yeah, something like that.” Arthur shrugged. “I bought it on a whim.”

It was weird how the twisted strands of fate had woven together to bring him here. He’d only agreed to take part in _Who Do You Think You Are?_ because Morgause, Morgana’s half sister, was a producer on the show and basically begged him to be on it. When Arthur finally found out what had happened to his mother, about the tragedy of her death in childbirth, which Uther had kept a secret all these years, he had wept, very publicly on national telly.

Although filmed over the summer, the show had finally aired last week. The press loved it, which certainly had the intended effect of boosting Morgause’s ratings.

But it wasn’t until he mentioned his bisexuality on camera that the press really went nuclear. Because, apparently, the bisexual thing came as a surprise. Despite the millions of times he had told interviewers that Freddie Mercury and David Bowie were his heroes, no-one seemed to believe that he was interested in guys as well as girls until he spelled it out in words of one syllable.

“Some whim, buying a house you’ve never seen,” said Merlin, softly. “I’m glad you have, though.”

“Yeah, me too. Quite apart from… well. Meeting you.” Arthur was glad of the darkness which hid the way that his face must be colouring. “Well, it’s good to get away from the bloody press, you know.” Understatement of the century. The paparazzi would be delighted to find out where they all were. Well, good luck to any prying paparazzo trying to get at them here. “God only knew why everyone feels so invested in my private life. It’s none of their bloody business who I fancy.”

“Yeah.” Talking of people that Arthur fancied, it was Merlin’s hand that alighted on the back of Arthur’s neck. It was cold and made Arthur shiver. But Merlin’s eyes were warm. “To hell with the lot of them.” Merlin bent forward and a soft pair of lips ghosted across Arthur’s.

It felt so good. Arthur chased that tantalising mouth with his own, hoping to capture the moment with a kiss that signified so many things. Promises, for a start.

But that was when the church bells rang out for midnight.

“Ah, well, touching and not to mention hot though it is watching you two snogging, there’s my signal. Ladies, here we go!” After rubbing his hands together and blowing on his knuckles, Gwaine rapped loudly three times on the door of Arthur’s cottage. When it opened, light and noise spilled out. Gwaine stumbled in, proffering gifts, the door closing behind him.

Arthur’s pulse was loud in his ears while he and Merlin kissed in the sudden silence, their lips parting as naturally as waters flowing around a rock.

Merlin eventually broke away what Arthur chose to interpret as reluctance, beckoning. “Come on. I’d better knock on the door or me mam will yell at me for bringing bad luck for the whole year.”

“Well, we certainly can’t risk that happening to my new neighbour, can we?” Arthur grabbed Merlin’s hand. “Do you think she’d mind if you bring home a new boyfriend who’s not only blond and southern, but also comes with baggage?”

“Boyfriend is it?” said Merlin, his grin widening, so that his cheeks forced his eyes to retreat behind layers of joyful crinkles. “I think she could cope with that. If he sings Auld Lang Syne with us, that is?”

“Challenge accepted.”

And so Arthur did, accompanied only by the far-off splash of the waves against the harbour wall.

It was the finest performance of his life.

*End*

 


End file.
